


A Wrinkle or Two

by whitachi



Category: L.A. Noire
Genre: M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-12
Updated: 2013-05-12
Packaged: 2017-12-11 14:52:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/799959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitachi/pseuds/whitachi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the L.A. Noire kinkmeme.</p>
<p>Prompt: Stefan is sick of hearing about the Golden Boy. He wants Cole mussed... clothes disheveled, loose tie, crooked hat, lips swollen from hard kisses, hot and bothered... just messy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Wrinkle or Two

He's not thinking before he gets Phelps into the wall. It's nighttime but it's still hot, heat coming off the pavement, out of the bricks. He's sweating under his suit, his hair is damp under his hat, but Phelps is perfect and his forehead isn't even shining. He's still got the evidence he found held in his right hand, the woman's scarf with the smudge of motor oil. It wafts a little as he gets his hands into Phelps's lapels.  
  
"What is the _problem_ , Bekowsky?" Phelps asks, blinking hard.  
  
" _You're_ the problem. Why've you always gotta be so goddamn perfect, Phelps?" He lets go of one of Phelps's lapel's to slap the brim of his hat up, knocking it back on his head. Phelps just blinks some more, like he’s got dust in his eyes. “Two more minutes and I’d’ve found the damn thing. Five more and Patrolman Wilson would have. But you’re first on the scene, all the goddamn time.”  
  
“Doesn’t matter who finds it, Bekowsky,” Phelps says, cool as always. “Just matters that it gets found.”  
  
“Easy for you to say, you’re always johnny on the goddamn spot.” He’s steaming, but Phelps is just staring at him with utter calm, like some kind of desert lizard, and he can’t stand it. He can’t stand it and he can’t help himself. He slaps Phelps’s hat off his head.  
  
“The hell, Stefan!” Phelps says, but Stefan is on a roll now. He reaches a hand in and scrubs his fingers through his hair, wrecking the perfectly Brylcreemed strands. He pulls his fingers forward and some of Phelps’s hair hangs in his face, and damn it all if the man isn’t blushing.  
  
“You angry, Phelps? So do something about it,” he says, and pulls on Phelps’s tie, yanking it loose to the side.  
  
Phelps just goes redder and Stefan can see him spread his palms out on the brick behind him. The scarf flutters to the ground. His nostrils flare and he looks down, dropping his eyes from Stefan’s gaze.  
  
“You got nothing to say, huh?” The heat’s gotten to his brain, because he gives Phelps a little slap across the mouth, just a light little kiss of fingers over the lips like you’d give a hysterical woman. Phelps closes his eyes and gasps... and _that_ sounds like something you’d hear out of a broad, too. Stefan grabs Phelps’s chin and he sees his eyelids flutter, just for a second. Well, he’ll be damned, Mr. Silver Star’s got something under there, after all.  
  
“You like that, Cole?” He laughs a little, because hell if he doesn’t like it, too. “The missus not push you around enough?”  
  
“You’re out of line, Bekowsky,” Phelps says with his eyes still turned to the ground, but his mouth is clearly dry and his cheeks are burning. Stefan lets his own eyes wander down, and isn’t _that_ just an interesting sight, how this little confrontation has gotten Phelps all excited and tenting out the front of his nice suit pants. Just damn interesting.  
  
“What are you going to do about it?” he says, and he’s sweating enough to feel it down the line of his spine, so that’s enough of an excuse to drop the hand that isn’t pinning Phelps down to grab that eager prick of his through his trousers. Phelps gasps and leans his head back, and Stefan’s got the funniest feeling that Mrs. Phelps never gets to see so pretty a sight, with his hair all fucked and the side of his mouth glowing just a little pink.  
  
“Didn’t think so,” he says, and he lets go of Phelps’s lapel to bring his hand up to his face, brush a thumb over Phelps’s lips and then shove it inside, scraping over his teeth, and damn it all if his eyes don’t close and he just lets it happen. Maybe this was what war did to a man, made him need something hard and dangerous that he didn’t want to fight. Or maybe this is something Phelps always had inside. Stefan couldn’t really care. He drags his wet thumb over Phelps’s lips and rubs his palm against his prick.  
  
“Jesus,” Phelps breathes, and damn it all if that little gasp doesn’t get a stirring going in Stefan’s own shorts, but he doesn’t give a damn about that right now. He pulls at Phelps’s hair, enough that he’ll never get it right again without a comb, and grinds his palm against his prick, not caring if the fabric is chafing him, not really caring about anything but making Phelps sweat.  
  
And he can see it, prickles of dampness coming at his collar, at his forehead as he closes his eyes and gasps. He pushes in close and breathes into Phelps’s face, lets him taste sour old coffee on his breath whenever he gasps with each move of Stefan’s hand. He leans in just enough to bite his lower lip -- it’s not a kiss, he’d never call it a kiss, but it’s enough to leave little pink teethmarks on Phelps’s skin.  
  
“ _Jesus_ ,” Phelps says again, sucking in breath, and his hips shudder and Stefan can feel dampness underneath the meat of his palm, and oh, that makes him smile. Phelps always has the nicest damn suits, and now he’ll have to spend the rest of the night with a little something extra drying in this one.  
  
Stefan takes a step back. Phelps is flushed all over, marked on cheek and lip, hair gone utterly to shit, suit a mess. Stefan’s half hard himself, but he’ll worry about that later. He leans over and picks up the woman’s scarf, and then Phelps’s hat.  
  
“I’ll just deal with this, then.” He pushes Phelps’s hat against his chest. “Get yourself together, Phelps. You look like shit.”  
  
He walks back to the car with a smile on his face.


End file.
